


Knock Me Out

by Lila82



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-10-20 03:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: After Max dies, Michael makes a run for it.  Alex is tasked with bringing him back.





	1. Chapter 1

On his best days, Alex wakes up and he isn't whole. 

He blinks away sleep, the sunlight hazy and bright, and he remembers, that the war took something from him.

There's the pain, and a phantom ache, but it's the memory that sears sharpest: the salute firm against his forehead, the Iraqi sun hot on his neck and gravel crunching under the Humvee's wheels and the sudden burst of noise, an explosion so loud he'd thought the earth was opening up beneath them.

When he'd woken up he'd been in Germany and there had only been 3/4 of him left. 

"I'm sorry," the doctor had said, purpling bags bulging under his tired eyes. "We couldn't save the leg."

It had been a nice way of saying his military career was over, but Alex wasn’t surprised. He'd known the risks when he'd signed up for the mission. They thought he was being noble – a brother – and maybe it was partly true. He had three brothers, spread across the desert at their father's whim. He knows though, he didn't do it for them. 

Seven thousand miles hadn't been enough distance to block out his father's mocking laugh, his fist closing around Alex's throat. "You will not embarrass me," he'd hissed. "If you wash out, don't bother coming back."

But Alex had come back, or at least most of him had. His father had stared at what was left of his leg, mouth twisted with contempt. "At least it will be an honorable discharge."

No, Alex didn't do it for his brothers, not the ones in arms or with whom he shares blood.

He did it because he knew that if he didn't come back, he wasn’t sure anyone would care.

* * *

Kyle watches Alex over the rim of his coffee cup.

He'd shown up the night before with a trunk full of groceries and a case of beer. The groceries are chilling in the fridge, but they'd put a significant dent in the beer. Alex can feel the after effects today – the pounding head, the bleary eyes – he wants to close them and maybe never wake up. 

But today is a good day. Despite the hangover, when he'd opened his eyes, he hadn't thought that he was whole. He doesn't have enough good days. He's not letting this one go.

Not even with Kyle staring at him like a total creep.

"What?" he snaps, refusing to feel bad about the sharpness of his tone. Kyle invited himself to the cabin. He doesn't have to make him feel welcome.

Guilt flashes across Kyle’s face. "You look like you did in high school. Makes me feel like a dick for how I treated you."

Alex grabs his phone and inspects his reflection in the smudged glass. His hair is a spiky mess around his head, his eyes ringed with dark circles that could pass for smudged liner. If it weren't for the exhaustion in his gaze, he could believe he was still seventeen years old.

Seventeen was a good year, even a great year for a few precious months. Seventeen was the year everything changed.

"We're not in high school anymore," he says wearily and pushes away the phone. There's no use wanting things that were never really his to begin with.

"I'm still sorry." 

Alex sighs. He doesn't own Kyle's guilt. He doesn't own anyone's guilt but his own and he left his behind in Iraq. 

"I'm not going to say this again, but I forgive you, okay? The rest of it, you need to deal with it on your own."

Kyle nods. "Okay." 

Alex takes a sip of his coffee to avoid having to say more. He'd been expecting the Maxwell House swill that Jim Valenti had left behind, but the coffee is good, maybe even great. He looks at Kyle expectantly.

Kyle shrugs. "We live in Roswell, not on Mars. I get it special delivered."

It's a peace offering if Alex's ever seen one. He grew up with three brothers under Jesse Manes' roof; he knows better than to turn it down.

"Well, thanks."

Kyle shrugs again. "You think Folgers is bad? Try hospital coffee at 4:00 am."

Alex takes another sip and Kyle does too, and they sit in companionable silence while the sun rises higher in the sky. It's nice, he can admit, not having any responsibilities. No missions, no alien conspiracies, no reason to get up except putting his empty mug in the sink.

He rests his hip against the counter, careful to put his weight on his one remaining foot. It's still a good day. So far, his brace doesn't chafe; what's left of his leg doesn't ache.

A plan pops into his head, a way to keep this good day going a little longer. "Wanna shoot something?" 

Kyle looks up sharply. "Uh, that's not why I told you about the gun – "

Alex waves him off. "I'll see you outside in ten."

"Is this some kind of macho military thing?" Kyle asks when he joins Alex in the clearing fifteen minutes later. He leans against a fence post and watches Alex set out empty beer cans. "I figured you for a background checks kind of guy." 

"I am, but I find it therapeutic." Alex isn't much for guns, but he enjoys target practice. He likes the repetition of it, how the world narrows into a single pinpoint of space, how good it feels to get this one thing exactly right.

Kyle laughs. "You're one big contradiction, Manes."

Alex says nothing and walks away from the makeshift targets, his makeshift leg stumbling a bit on the uneven terrain. Nothing in his life has made sense since he was seventeen. He doesn't need Kyle to remind him.

He hands Kyle the Glock and opens a box of ammo. "Show me what you can do."

Kyle is not a natural with a gun. He can't get the grip right and he curses, increasingly loudly, when he misses his targets. Alex tries to walk him through the basics, but he isn't doing much better.

"Aren't you trained at this?" Kyle asks as Alex changes the clip. 

Alex taps his knee with the Glock’s handle, the clang of metal on metal ringing through the clearing. "The prosthetic makes it easier to walk, but my stance, how I bear my weight – nothing's the same."

The statement hangs around them, awkward and uncomfortable. Kyle opens his mouth and Alex cringes at the pity he knows is coming. It's not why he brought it up, but he knows it will be the reaction regardless.

Kyle grins broadly instead and reaches for the Glock. "You know how I hate to lose."

His aim improves somewhat, but Alex still makes two clean shots for every time Kyle's bullet grazes an empty. "You owe me a beer."

Kyle tosses a bullet-ridden can at him. "I bought all the beer."

"Don't be a sore loser.

It's easy, bantering like this. Alex doesn't have to look for hidden meaning between each of Kyle's words. He can make a joke and let it hang and it stops there. It might do more to get his head on straight than firing thirty rounds into Coors Light cans.

Kyle ambles over to pick up the empties while Alex puts away the gun. He's just unloading the clip when Kyle catches him off-guard. "Max Evans is dead." 

The world spins. Alex would like to say it's just his equilibrium failing as he whirls around, but he can't be sure. He likes Max fine but this isn't about Max. 

Suddenly he's seventeen again and the snap of twigs beneath Kyle's boot becomes a hammer crushing the fragile bones of Michael Guerin's hand. For a moment, he can't catch his breath. It might not be physical this time, but the ache of loss – it spreads miserably through his chest.

"You decided to tell me now?"

Warily, Kyle crosses the clearing. He slowly pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. The screen is filled with texts and missed calls from Liz. "I wasn't going to tell you at all. He's in stasis, stashed in one of those pods. We were trying to keep a lid on it until Liz found a way to wake him up." Kyle swallows. "It's gotten...complicated."

Alex starts for the cabin. It's why he came up here, to get away, to forget the day he left his heart in a junkyard under a blazing desert sun. There's a metaphor there, but he can’t focus long enough to contemplate it over the roaring in his ears. _"Come back tomorrow, we can talk then."_ He kicks the door open with more force than necessary.

His leg aches and his head pounds. He pulls another beer from the fridge and pads into the living room, sprawls on the couch and unbuckles his belt, tugs down his jeans and yanks at the prosthetic until it comes loose. He lies back and breathes in deep, savoring the sweet, sweet relief. 

He's just swallowed two aspirin with a hearty swig of beer when Kyle follows him inside. "You know I'm glad we're friends again, Manes, but I don't like you that way."

Alex doesn't bother opening his eyes. "Fuck off, Valenti." He stretches his good leg, letting the other flop against the sofa. "You played three Varsity sports in high school. It's not like you haven't seen a guy in his underwear before."

He hears rather than sees Kyle drop into the armchair. "I'm sorry, okay?" he says after a beat. “I should have told you."

"Why didn't you?" 

Kyle sighs. "You know why."

"I get it, alright? I might not be a member of the Pod Squad, but Liz is my friend. I should have been there for her." 

"It's not just that. Max died bringing Rosa Ortecho back to life. They wouldn't have told me, except..."

"...she's your sister. Congrats." Alex winces. He didn't mean for the words to sound so mean.

"Yeah," Kyle says bitterly. "She's my sister, and instead of getting to know her again, I'm stuck up here babysitting you."

Alex regrets having removed the prosthetic. It would be a great moment to jump up and get in Kyle's face but as is, he can do little more than glare. Still, he makes it count, crosses his arms over his chest too. "Why _are_ you here?"

Kyle sighs. "Guerin's missing." 

And just like that, for the second time in one, no longer glorious day, the earth moves beneath him. Caulfield is gone but his father is out there and Guerin’s always been too hot-headed for his own good. 

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Alex is proud of the flat tone of his voice, how steady he keeps his jaw. He swallows down the memory of sitting alone in a wilting lawn chair, waiting for the moment everything would change and watching it pass him by. 

Kyle sets his jaw. "You wanna to dance around the truth for the rest of the afternoon or can we cut the bullshit? Liz and Maria are freaking out."

Alex flinches at the mention of Maria's name but tries not to let it show. It's not her fault, she didn't know, and he's seen Michael Guerin without a shirt. He gets it, even if it hurts. "I don't know what you want me to do. We were supposed – I don't know where he is and I wouldn't know the first place to start looking." It's a lie, but a plausible one. Until a few months ago, he hadn't seen Guerin in over a decade. How would he know the location of all his hidey holes?

“I don’t like the guy much either, but Liz swears that he’s some kind of scientific genius. She says she needs his brain to bring Max back.”

“Unless he’s in his trailer or at the Wild Pony, I’m out of ideas.”

Kyle draws in a breath. "Isobel Evans threatened me." He pauses, eyes shifting nervously. "She's scary, man." 

Alex would agree with that sentiment, even before he discovered that she's an alien, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to scour the streets of Roswell in search of the man that jilted him. Just thinking about the hours he spent outside Guerin’s trailer makes his throat tight with anger, with embarrassment, with _shame_. He laid his cards on the table and all he got for it was a broken heart. He doesn’t owe Guerin anything.

But his heart, that stupid broken heart in all its jagged pieces, he doesn’t own it, not really, not for a long time. His stupid heart reminds him that part of it lives outside his chest and it might no longer be his but he’s responsible for it all the same. He can’t walk away from this even if Guerin walked away from him.

“Okay,” he finally says, watches the relief ease out of Kyle’s chest in a grateful breath. “I’ll bring him back.”


	2. Chapter 2

Before Michael, there was Max.

He was the obvious choice, with the height and the broad shoulders and the deep baritone of his voice, but also too obvious – obviously straight, obviously in love with Liz – and Alex forgot him almost as quickly as he noticed him.

Michael Guerin was more like looking into the sun.

The boy was handsome, with the curls and the easy smile and the cowboy jeans clinging to his hips, but Alex had seen handsome men before. He grew up around military types. Long before he'd put one on himself, he'd understood the appeal of a man in uniform.

Even at seventeen, Guerin had known exactly who he was, hadn't shied away from taking what he wanted. Alex could do little more than follow. In Guerin's presence, he could shine so brightly. He could be more than just another Manes boy. He didn't know who or what he wanted to be, just that he wanted that light to keep shining on him. 

He's no spy, but it's been ten years that he's been in the cold. He misses being full of light. He's ready to be warm. He just has to take the first step.

He's lost Guerin before; he can find him again.

* * *

Alex scours Roswell, staking out the Crashdown and the ranch and every bar in town, even Saturn's Rings. Nothing. He tries the more practical route and turns up literal loose stones around the Project Shepard bunker, sifts through papers and tools in the shelter beneath Guerin's trailer. 

Still nothing.

The Airstream is messy and in need of a good dusting, but it’s also like Guerin never left. There are dishes in the sink and an empty bottle of tequila on the table and a shirt slung over the kitchen chair, a torn Henley Alex knows well. He put in a few of those rips the last time they slept together.

Thinking about that morning makes him think about the drive-in and Caulfield and the hours he spent just outside the trailer's door, waiting and waiting only to be left behind. 

He pushes open the door and takes gasping breaths, the cool air soothing the anger singeing his lungs. What a fool he’s been for Michael Guerin.

He takes stock of his surroundings and wishes he hadn't.

The junkyard mocks him.

Alex _knows_ there’s a metaphor there, and cured of his hangover, it doesn't take much effort to work it out – Guerin tossed him away like the good citizens of Roswell throw out their broken things.

There's rejection everywhere he looks, in the dusting of ashes ringing the fire pit and the pile of old cattle blankets in the bed of an abandoned pick up but especially the battered lawn chair a few feet from the door.

He spent hours in that chair not three days ago, his heart beating so hard against his ribs he thought it might burst from his chest.

In theory, he has nothing against the chair. It’s an inanimate object that's seen better days, but it suddenly becomes an emblem of everything he hates: his father, Guerin, this town, himself. Without warning, he hurls the chair against the side of the trailer, lets out a roar to go with it.

It narrowly misses the window, but leaves a sizable dent. It should make him feel better but it's a dent in a trailer that's well past its expiration date and nothing has changed.

Guerin's still gone and he's still here and he's rapidly losing what's left of his dignity. He collapses onto the front steps, his bad leg sprawled clumsily in front of him. He rests his head against the warm metal of the trailer. It’s suddenly too much to hold it upright.

Tears pool in his eyes and his father whispers in his ear, "He isn’t worth the dirt beneath your boots. Be a _man_, Alex. Don’t make me wish you weren’t a Manes.” He’d said those same words the night he took a hammer to Guerin’s hand.

Except fair has never been his lot in life. He grew up without his mom, and with Jesse Manes for a dad, and an entire town that turned on him the moment he made it clear that he liked guys. He should know better. He _does_ know better. 

He wipes his eyes and pushes awkwardly to his feet. “Fuck this,” he mutters under his breath. This is the last time Michael Guerin gets to make him cry.

* * *

Alex is three whiskeys into his pity party when Isobel finds him.

It's weird being at the Wild Pony without Maria behind the bar, but her staff takes care of him and the drinks are free, even the top shelf stuff. He drinks his whiskey neat, no ice to dilute the burn, but he wants it that way. He likes to remember that love _hurts_.

He doesn't think too hard on Maria's absence. His mother didn't lose her mind, but she left him all the same. That pain never really goes away. If anyone deserves a night off, it's Maria. Still, it would be nice to have her there. She gets the push and pull that's Michael Guerin. He wouldn't mind talking about it with someone that understands.

The night wears on and Alex gets drunker and then Isobel is there, wearing half the contents of a turquoise mine and looking like a walking craft fair. It makes Alex want to laugh. They might live in New Mexico, but only Isobel dresses like she lives in a tourism advertisement. If he didn't know her secret, he'd wonder what she was trying to prove. It doesn't make her look more human though.

She sidles up next to him and pours an inch of acetone into his whiskey, swallows what's left in one gulp. "I needed that."

Isobel's Queen Bee bullshit was tiring in high school, but as adults, it's exhausting. Alex wants to drink his misery away in peace without her telling him what to do.

He's out of luck. She shrugs out of her jacket and slides onto a neighboring stool. "I thought you were supposed to be looking for Michael."

Hearing his name hurts but it's only a minor sting. _Michael_ is a stranger. Guerin is the name that brings him to his knees.

Alex signals for a refill. "He's in the wind, Isobel."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course he’s not. It's not just a matter of finding him – I need someone to bring him back."

"So you thought of me?"

Isobel pats his cheek. "It's sweet that you think your relationship is still a secret."

Alex flushes. He _had_ thought that people didn't know. "We're not in a relationship."

"Whatever you want to call it. Regardless, it makes you uniquely skilled to track him down."

He contemplates his whiskey for a long moment. Three days ago, he might have agreed but he knows better now. Whatever he thought he knew – _whoever_ – he thought he knew, it’s over for good.

“I don’t know how I can help you – “

“I already lost one brother.” Alex looks up sharply. There are tears in Isobel’s eyes and he doesn’t think it’s for show. He knows what it means to wear a mask. The woman staring back at him with watery eyes and a trembling mouth, she's the real deal. 

“Isobel – ” he starts.

“ – Max is gone. Maybe I’ll get him back, maybe I won’t, but Michael’s still out there. I can’t lose him too.”

Alex has three siblings but he doesn’t understand family. It was just as likely that Flint would have let Caulfield come down on top of him as he would have warned him. If his brother hadn’t made it home from Iraq, would Alex have mourned him? Would his heart have felt less whole? He thinks the answer, on both counts, is no. It wouldn’t be grief, but regret. Only three other people know what it was like to grow up Jesse Manes’ son and they might as well be strangers.

Isobel is different. It’s real fear shining in her tear-filled eyes, real love making her mouth tremble. Alex had that feeling once, an alarm blaring in his ears and his heart in his throat, cursing himself for wasting so much damn time. 

It’s a sign, or an omen, or just a dumb coincidence, but Alex knows he’s sunk. He can’t exactly say no to Isobel when they want the same thing.

"Okay," he sighs, already feeling a headache coming on. "I'm in." 

* * *

Alex has nightmares.

Not all the time, or every night, but when he's especially tired or his guard is down, he sees his dead brothers in his dreams – his true brothers – the ones that were with him on that fateful day but weren't able to limp away. He's supposed to be living his life for them, a promise it seems he struggles to keep.

He was too drunk to drive back to the cabin and there was no way he'd spend another night under Jesse Manes' roof, so he'd ended up in Isobel's guest room. 

“You matter to Michael so you matter to me,” she’d said and tugged him off the bar stool. He hadn’t survived Iraq to pull a Rosa Ortecho, so he hadn’t protested when she’d insisted on taking him home. 

It’s too dark to make out the details of the house, but the bed is soft and the pillow is firm and he mumbles a drunken “thank you” when Isobel tucks the comforter under his chin. She leaves a glass of water and two aspirin. "Get some sleep – tomorrow we work."

He ignores her and pulls the comforter over his head, the contents of his stomach roiling and threatening to spill. The darkness helps some. In the dark, he can remember Martinez the way he first met him, young and solid and blessedly whole. He can almost forget the last time he saw him, his lower half gone along with most of his jaw and his blood seeping into the sand. In the dark, he can almost pretend it's just a bad dream.

Alex has nightmares but Isobel does too.

It's the screaming that wakes him. He jerks upright in a bed that isn't his, skin soaked in sweat and heart racing, and it takes him a minute to realize the screaming isn't coming from him.

Without his prosthetic it's slow progress to her room, but she's still asleep when he limps in, thrashing between the sheets in her own sweat-soaked skin. He doesn't want to wake her but he's worried she might hurt herself if he doesn't, so with a deep breath he shakes her shoulder. She bolts upright and her forehead slams into his. 

"The fuck, Isobel?" he manages to say before he loses his balance and tumbles on the bed.

He lands half on top of her and she scurries away, plasters herself against headboard as she gets her bearings. "What are you doing in my room?"

He rolls to his back and rubs his forehead, feels a bruise coming on. "You had a nightmare. I tried to wake you and I got a goose egg for my trouble." 

She glares at him. "Don't you know you're not supposed to wake someone up when they're dreaming?"

Alex glares back. "That's sleep walking, and anyway, you're welcome."

She stares at him for another minute before getting up with a heavy sigh. "Wait here."

He’s too tipsy and out of sorts to go anywhere, staring at her ceiling and watching the whirl of her of the overhead fan until she comes back and tosses an ice pack at his chest. She holds a bag of frozen peas to her own bruise and helps him sit up. “Sorry about the bump.” 

They sit in silence, the quiet between them scratching like a bad itch. “Do you want to talk about it?” The question practically bursts from Alex’s chest.

Isobel shakes her head. “My brother died. My personal drama doesn’t really matter anymore.” She studies him closely. “What about you?”

“What about me? You were the one screaming in your sleep.”

It’s a low blow, but Isobel isn’t deterred. “I heard you tossing and turning,” she says. 

“I drank like a fifth of whiskey,” Alex reminds her. “Hard to sleep when the room is spinning.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” She studies his face, her gaze lingering on his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. He’s half convinced she’s going to kiss him but then she smiles, looking so much like Guerin that he wonders if they aren’t really related by blood. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she says. She even winks.

Alex stares at her for a beat. She doesn’t just look like Guerin but sounds like him too and he isn’t sure what to do, find it comforting or unnerving or something in between. 

He laughs. He didn't necessarily mean to, but the situation is ridiculous and spilling secrets to Isobel Evans feels as logical as any other decision he’s made tonight. Isobel looks at him like he's lost his mind and maybe he has. Doing the same thing and expecting different results, isn't that the definition of insanity? He's spent the last ten years watching his heart break again and again and he always goes back for more. _Madness_. If only it was the honest truth. He flops back on the bed and to his surprise, Isobel joins him. More silence stretches between them, but this time it isn’t awkward. It’s not quite friendly either but it’s comfortable, the simple act of having someone at his side.

One of them has to go first and Alex's just drunk enough to take charge. He doesn't regret it nearly as much as he thought he would. "The day I lost my leg, I volunteered for a recon mission. A simple sweep through Basra, back at the base in under an hour.” He sucks in a breath, already hearing the roar in his ears. “It was an IED. There were four of us in the Humvee.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m the only one still alive.”

Isobel slides a little closer. “My husband took control of my body and killed three girls. Then he tried to kill Michael, and Max, and eventually me. I might be alive but it doesn’t always feel like it.” She rests her head on his shoulder and curls into his side. “Does it get easier?”

He could lie to her. It would be easy, so, so easy to make up stories featuring people she knows nothing about. It would be kinder too, but he doesn't think she'd appreciate him softening the blow. Whoever she was in high school, this Isobel Evans is made of tougher stuff. But mostly, he's just tired of lies. “It doesn’t for me.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” She chokes on what sounds dangerously like a sob. “So what do I do?”

“Savor the good days, hold them close.” Unbidden, a memory floats to the surface, Guerin in the early morning sun, golden and glowing, his smile the brightest light Alex has ever seen. Even with all that’s happened over the past few days, he feels it chase the ghosts away.

Isobel doesn’t respond and her breathing slows. Alex wonders what she's thinking about, what memory is keeping her demons at bay. He stays with her for a few minutes, but when he tries to return to his own bed, she grabs his hand. “I know we barely know each other, but…do you think you could stay?”

It takes him less than a second to agree. He could chalk it up to exhaustion or laziness, but he knows the reason is far simpler – he doesn’t want to be alone. Doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts and his heartbreak but especially his ghosts.

“Okay,” he says softly, wanting to laugh again at how weird the situation is. It’s unlikely he and Isobel exchanged more than five words all the years they grew up together, and now they’re having a sleepover. So much has changed, but it isn’t all bad. This, this could even be nice. He puts down his crutches and lies down next to her. “I’ll stay.” 

* * *

When Alex opens his eyes, he doesn’t worry about whether or not it’s a good day because he’s more concerned about figuring out where he is.

He’s in an enormous bed in an enormous house with lots of sunlight and natural wood and a comforter that’s a cheesy Southwestern splash of turquoise and salmon.

Isobel, he spent the night at Isobel Evans’ house. It still doesn’t feel all that weird.

Her side of the bed is empty but there’s noise coming from downstairs, the low croon of a radio, the bubbling hiss of coffee percolating. He takes a few minutes to get himself together then thumps awkwardly down the stairs.

“There’s coffee in the pot,” Isobel says cheerfully and stirs something on the stove. Alex blinks blearily at her. She’s wearing one of those fancy silk nightgowns and a matching robe, her hair in a neat twist. The effort of it all only increases his exhaustion.

He helps himself to a cup and sits down at her kitchen island, sipping his coffee while Isobel manages to screw up scrambled eggs. They’re both hard and watery when she presents him with his breakfast, and his hangover is only at about 5% but he feels queasy from looking at them. He pushes them around his plate in hopes she won’t notice his refusal to eat them.

The toast is a little better, especially when he slathers on butter, but Isobel is no fool. “Noah was the cook in this house.” A shadow falls over her face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” It’s the least he can do after she took him in and attempted to feed him.

She takes a moment to answer, her eyes closed as she lets in and out a series of deep breaths; they’re bright with anger when she meets his gaze. “I never want to talk about him again.” She rises to her feet and puts her mug in the sink. “Eat up, Manes. We have work to do.”

For a lack of better options, they start at the trailer. Guerin isn’t there, but it seems to bring Isobel comfort being among his things. Alex leans against the kitchen counter and lets her poke around, careful to look anywhere but the bed.

Isobel growls in frustration. “This is another dead end.” Without warning, the front door slams open and she stomps into the yard.

Alex follows more slowly, less because of his leg and more because he just saw Isobel move something with her mind. “So you have telekinesis.”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Isobel slumps into a lawn chair. “I can only do little things. Michael’s the one that can move mountains.”

Alex nods. He already knew that. “And you, what can you do?”

A mischievous glint gleams in Isobel’s eyes. “I can get into your head.”

For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, Alex feels uncertain. He's known Isobel most of his life, but not this side of her. He doesn't think she's dangerous, but can he really be sure?

“Is that why we’re here today? Did you subliminally tell me to track down Guerin?”

The humor disappears from Isobel’s eyes. She curls into herself, suddenly looking very small. “I don't do that anymore. The last twenty years of my life have been lie after lie. I’m trying to do things differently these days.” 

“And you can’t use this superpower to find Guerin?”

The barest hint of a smile curves her mouth, making her look more like herself. “It only works on unsuspecting humans.”

Alex chuckles. “I’m glad that we’re on the same side.”

There’s a noise a ways off, like tires on an unpaved road, and they turn their heads in unison but it’s not Michael’s truck coming towards them.

Maria cuts the ignition and climbs out of the cab, wrapping her arms around her middle as she crosses the yard. It’s winter and cold outside, but Alex recognizes that pose. Something is weighing on Maria’s mind and it’s more than the weather.

Isobel glares at her and rises to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

Maria’s eyes flick between them, her brow knitting in confusion. “Guerin isn’t picking up his phone, so I thought I’d reach out the old-fashioned way.” She holds up a physical letter. “I was going to leave this in his trailer.” She turns her gaze on Isobel and scowls. “What are you doing here?”

Vaguely, Alex can hear them bickering, but he’s focused on other things. _”Liz and Maria are freaking out”_, that’s what Kyle had said. Alex had thought Maria was being a supportive friend, but delivering snail mail is an unnecessary step. Guerin slept with Maria and Maria has feelings for him and Alex asked Guerin to give him another chance and that chance came and went. He sucks in a heavy breath, staring at his friend in shock. Maria knew – she _knew_ – what Guerin meant to him and yet here they are. She’s the terrified girlfriend and he’s – he has no idea what he is, except angry, bitter, and especially betrayed. He laughs again, but with no humor this time. How did it turn out that Isobel Evans is his only true friend?

Maria must see something in his face, or his voice, because she stops arguing with Isobel and turns to him. “Alex, it’s not what you think – ”

He shakes his head. “It’s exactly what I think. I told you that he’s the love of my life and you decided to fuck him anyway.”

She looks like she’s been slapped, but doesn’t deny it. “It just happened.”

“Pu-lease,” Isobel chimes in. “I’d rather not talk about Michael’s sex life, but it’s not like you tripped and landed on his dick. You made a choice, DeLuca. Live with it.”

Her words are meant for Maria but Alex takes them to heart too. He also made a choice, every time he looked away, every flimsy excuse he made to protect his heart and hide his shame. Could he really blame Maria for taking what he so willingly threw away?

The anger starts to fade. He’s not mad at her, but sad. She’s one of his oldest friends and things will never be the same between them again. He waits a long while to speak, never breaking eye contact. She eventually flinches and looks away. The victory feels far too hollow.

“Moving on,” he says, only a little bite in his voice. “When was the last time you saw Guerin?”

“He came by the night Max went to rehab. How’s he doing?”

“Better,” Isobel says. She has a look on her face that says she’ll melt Alex’s brain if he spills the beans so he nods along like this is all news to him. “He was shot on the job a few months back and apparently got hooked on his pain pills. He’s in rehab out of state until he recovers. We’re not sure how long he’ll be gone.”

It’s a good cover story, or at least a credible one, and Alex gamely plays along. “I hope he’s on the mend soon.” He turns back to Maria. “But what does that have to do with Guerin?”

She swallows hard. “His hand was healed, Alex. He picked up a guitar and it was like the last ten years never happened. I don’t understand but that’s not even the weird part. One minute we’re – we’re at my place and in the next he’s running out the door, mumbling something about Max and how it’s all his fault.”

Alex glances at Isobel, expecting to see understanding in her expression, but she looks as confused as he feels. “And you haven’t heard from him since.”

“I know you hate me right now, but I don’t have to be psychic to know something’s wrong.” Her gaze shifts between him and Isobel again. “That’s why you’re here with her, right? You’re trying to find him.”

“Michael is my family,” Isobel says. “What else did you think I’d be doing?”

_Family_. Alex had said the same words to Guerin and he’d thrown them back in his face. Granted, Caulfield had been about to tumble down around them, but –

_Family_. “I know where he is.”

The women look up in unison. “What? Where?”

“I’ll explain later. Isobel, let’s go.” He starts for the car.

“Can we talk? Just for a minute?” Maria looks hopeful but regardless, they’ve been friends too long for him to say no.

Isobel pats his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and faces Maria. “I get it, okay? It was more than a Texas rounder. I’ve been there too.”

“But I knew and I did it anyway.” A tear slips down her cheek and he shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from wiping it away. He doesn’t hate her, but he isn’t ready to comfort her either.

“What I don’t understand is why?”

She wipes at her eyes, leaves a streak of mascara on her cheek. “Just once, I wanted to be selfish. You got caught in the crossfire.”

Alex rubs his leg. _Collateral damage_. He knows it all too well. “Was it worth it?”

“Looking at you now, not even a little bit.” She reaches for him and he takes a step back, her hand dropping to her side on a sob. “I really am sorry.”

“Me too.” The stand awkwardly in the yard until Isobel beeps the horn. He doesn’t want to leave without some kind of resolution, but Alex isn’t sure what to say. He forgives her, but he can’t be around her, and he tells her just that.

Maria nods. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

She’s still crying when he gets in Isobel’s car, but he keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says before Isobel can ask.

Without a word, she turns down the drive. She won't stop looking at him, sneaking peeks at his face and frowning, and he tries but fails to ignore her.

"What?" he snaps. His tone is harsher than he intended but his nerves are frayed; whatever drama she wants to create about Maria will have to wait for another day.

"Whatever happened with Michael and Maria, it might be my fault."

"Guerin's a grown man. He's responsible for his own decisions."

"Maybe, but I think I gave him a push. I don't know what happened between you two, but I told him to stop looking back and for once he listened."

Alex could be angry with her – _would_ have been angry with her just a few years before – but he meant what he said, and even more, what he's learned. He went to war and lost a leg because of the choices he made. His father, this town, they played a role, but the final decision was all his. Whatever reason Guerin ran to Maria, that's on him.

"If you're looking for forgiveness, I'll give it to you. This...this thing between Guerin and me, it's been imploding for ten years. Nothing you said would have made a difference."

"He told me that he loves you," Isobel says softly. "That he'll always love you but right now it hurts too much. He called you a crash landing, Alex. I don't know why he took off, but I think it has something to do with that."

_Cosmic_. _Crash landing_. Something he understands so clearly shouldn’t be so complicated. Something that feels so good shouldn’t hurt so much. 

“It’s not your fault,” he says because it’s not Isobel’s fault or Maria’s fault or even Guerin’s fault. "He didn't take off because of what you said, but because of what I did." Or in truth, didn't do. All those times Guerin held out his hand and Alex was too afraid to take it. He pushed and he pushed and Guerin finally didn't pull back. It's his turn to do the chasing.

“But you know where he is?” Isobel’s eyes fill with hope. “You’re going to bring him home.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to bring him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support for this fic. It's been a long time since I've posted and anything and it's been a lot of fun getting back into the groove, although that groove is taking a slight hiatus. I'll be traveling/having minor surgery over the next two weeks which means I'll be delayed in posting chapter three. Apologies for the poor planning.


	3. Chapter 3

Alex knows things about loss.

When he lost his leg, the doctors told him that he might forget that it’s no longer there. Phantom pain, that’s what they called it. Some kind of disconnect between his brain and what remained of his body, a constant reminder of what was taken from him. As if he could forget.

Caulfield explodes and Alex feels that loss all over again, the sense that the world is resetting, that a part of him is gone forever. His heart races as they speed down the highway, Kyle's hands gripping the steering wheel and Michael curled into a ball in the backseat. 

Alex takes deep, gulping breaths to ease the tight fist closing around his lungs. The sun is shining and the road is clear and it's Basra all over again, the roaring in his ears and the screams in his head and the knowledge that there are only so many times he can cheat death.

When he finally has the courage to open his eyes, he sneaks a peak at Guerin. He's staring out the back window, gripping his knee with his bad hand. 

Alex wants to reach for him, to take that gnarled hand between his own and press it to his chest, to where his heart still beats, because they're still alive. Somehow, they're still alive.

He doesn't take that final step. He's no psychic, and he doesn't have alien powers, but he doesn't need them to read Michael Guerin. He can _feel_ him, the rage and the regret and bone-shattering grief. All that's left of everything Guerin ever wanted is smoke and ash, completely out of reach when it's never been closer. 

Alex can hear the scream building inside him, ripping through Guerin's insides and begging to be released. He knows that scream. He knows the frustration and the helplessness, the need to do something, anything, to let the pressure out. Losing his leg in someone else's war has taught him well.

He doesn't know what will happen if he touches Guerin, if he'll curl into an even smaller ball of misery or blow up the car with one quick trick of his mind, but there's been enough death for one day.

He keeps his hands to himself and his eyes on Guerin, staring and staring into the smoky dust. There’s nothing left for him out there but Alex gets the pull. 

He’s not the only one to leave a piece of himself in the desert.

* * *

It’s dark by the time Alex arrives at Caulfield. 

He had to pick up his car from the Wild Pony and stop by Isobel’s and by the time he really got going, the day was mostly over. He probably should have waited until morning, made this trip with a clear head and a full night’s sleep, but he didn’t see the point. Twenty-four hours wouldn’t change the thrumming in his blood or the urgency in his bones, the _need_ to see this thing through once and for all.

Isobel had insisted on feeding him too. Alex had watched warily as she'd rummaged in the refrigerator. He'd been starving, but not enough to try her cooking again. 

She’d rolled her eyes and pulled out a bottle of water. “I can handle PB&J, Manes.” 

He hadn’t been sure that she actually could, but hadn’t questioned her again. Fixing things, that was how she coped, and who was he to judge? Guerin drank and got into fights and Isobel put him back together and Alex, when things got tough, he ran. It's what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. 

It speaks to him, that little voice in his head, on the long drive to Caulfield. _Coward_, it hisses. _Saboteur_. 

He'd been eighteen but Mama DaLucca had a soft spot for her daughter's friends, and he'd spent half his childhood in Jim Valenti's house, and regardless, he was deploying in three days. Getting caught pounding a couple beers at the Wild Pony was the least of his worries. He'd been just drunk enough to hitch a ride to the ranch, to knock on the door with all the confidence of a man about to leave for war. Guerin had stared at him, all wild eyes and wilder curls, and Alex had shoved his hands in his pockets to hide how much they shook. He could die, in three days he could die, and that night he'd wanted to live. He'd been a kid then – he'd taken what he wanted. 

His memories are fuzzy. Less from the booze and more because it hurts to remember. Still, there are some images he can't quite banish. The stark curves of Guerin's ribs, the sharp jut of his hips. He'd been underfed back then and it had shown in every lean line of his body. But Alex remembers other things too. The softness of Guerin's skin, the gentle press of his fingers. The stinging burn that hurt so good he'd thought he might burst out of his own skin when Guerin slid inside him. 

He mostly remembers waking up in a tangle of arms and legs, the early morning sun highlighting the twisted mess of flesh and bone that used to be Guerin's hand. It still makes his throat close up, just thinking about it. That morning, seeing it had sent him gasping from the trailer until he was on his knees and throwing up in the dirt. When he could finally breathe, when his head had cleared enough to realize what he'd done, he'd gotten out of dodge and never bothered to look back. 

_"I never look away, not really._” Alex hadn't believed it then but he gets it now. Guerin had tried and hoped and _stayed._. Alex might have fought a war but when it really mattered, when it was the life he actually wanted, he'd laid down his arms without even trying. 

This is fighting, he realizes, as he turns off the engine. He tamps down the urge to slam his one remaining foot against the accelerator. It would be easier that way, to cut and run rather than risk failure, but Alex isn't a quitter, not anymore. It might take him a few minutes to work up the courage, but he eventually opens the door and climbs out of the car. 

The air is thick with smoke, heavy with grief. It's only been a few days and Caulfield might have disappeared but it's not entirely gone. There's a faint glow against the night sky, flames that have yet to burn out, and sitting in the bed of his pickup, hair lit up like a halo in the fading light, is Michael Guerin holding a half-empty bottle of tequila.

Alex sucks in a breath, lets it out; he’s frozen in place. Whatever’s coming, he dreads it more than the heavy tread of his father’s boots on the stairs, the slap of his belt against the healing scars on his back. Whatever happens here, tonight, there’s no going back.

Guerin has to know that someone is there but he doesn’t turn around, even when he hears the thump of Alex’s crutch in the dirt. “You tracking me, Private?” His voice is harsh, cutting.

“It's Sergeant“, Alex snaps back. He doesn’t want to pick a fight, but he doesn’t know how else to talk to Guerin. That’s another thing that should probably change.

"You’re all the same to me.” 

It’s a lie, but Alex doesn’t correct him; sarcasm is a Guerin defense mechanism if he’s ever seen one. Most days he’d play along but he’s tired. He’s tired of the game and tired from the drive and tired of the regret. He’s made so many dumb choices over the past ten years and it has to end. He lets his exhaustion show as he hobbles the rest of the distance to the truck. 

Alex awkwardly sits down next to Guerin. His leg hurts from the drive and his shoulder aches from the crutch and his heart is bruised from so many years of pretending this isn't what he wants. "There are people looking for you. People who actually care about whether or not you're okay."

Guerin takes a swig of tequila. "But not you, right? You're just following orders like a good soldier." 

The words were meant to hurt, but Alex shakes them off. Guerin uses his words like weapons, to hide what he's really feeling. Guerin is mean; Alex runs away. Like recognizes like. 

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Guerin finally puts down the tequila. "And why are you here?" 

"For starters, your sister threatened to melt my brain." 

Guerin's laugh is hollow. "Glad to see Iz is back to her old self."

"And Maria is freaking out." That gets Guerin's attention. He opens his mouth to say something but Alex beats him to it. They need to discuss Maria, but he needs to say this more, before he loses his nerve. "I'm here because you said you'd never look away and when I was ready to look back you weren't there."

"Well congratulations, Alex. Glad to see you have it all figured out."

"I went to your trailer. I waited for half a day. Where were you?"

It's too dark to tell for sure, but he thinks Guerin flushes. _Good_. He should feel bad for what he did. "Max died – "

"Bullshit." Alex isn't sure which is a lower blow, Guerin using Max's death as an excuse or how flippantly he skips past it. "Before that you were with Maria. I talked to her, Guerin. She told me everything." 

Guerin's hand curls around the tequila bottle. It flames red for a brief instant, there then gone. It's far less unsettling than Alex would have thought. He actually likes it, seeing Guerin for what he really is. They'll need honesty to move past this. 

"Fine." Guerin jumps off the truck bed, like he needs to put distance between them. Alex tries not to take it personally – he spent ten years doing the same. "You really want to know?"

"I do." Alex's leg hurts too much to risk a physical confrontation but he raises his chin proudly, doesn't break eye contact. He won't be the one to look away this time.

"Noah died. I didn't like the guy much, but he was the only person who could tell me anything about where I come from. I spent twenty years looking for answers, and just like that, it was gone." 

He looks so miserable that Alex almost goes to him. Almost but not quite. He's still angry and wants answers. 

"So you went to Maria?" He meant it as a statement but it comes out more like a question. He hopes Guerin can hear between his words, _why_ did you choose her over me?"

"Yeah, I went to her. He spreads his arms wide. "This is me. Whatever – whoever – I thought I was going to be died with Noah. If I had to start over, I wanted it to be with someone who isn't afraid to hold my hand."

In his rush to find Guerin, Alex had forgotten about the hand. What was it Maria had said, that he was playing guitar? It's too dark to see clearly; he'll have to check for himself. He hauls himself off the truck bed and takes slow steps across the clearing until he's only a few inches from Guerin's heaving chest. It's still dark but the desert is full of stars and the moon casts a sliver of light over Guerin's exhausted face. Carefully, so not to spook him, he picks up Guerin's broken hand. 

Maria was right. Guerin's fingers are long, tapered stretches of smooth bone. The skin is soft, the muscle corded, without a single break or curve. "How?"

"Max," Guerin says. His voice catches, his shoulders slumping. "Right before he – "

He tries to pull away, but Alex is stronger, gimpy leg and all. He does what he's wanted to do for weeks but was too afraid to try. He takes Guerin's hand and presses it to his chest, over his heart, so Guerin knows that he might have lost a brother but he isn't alone. 

"I'm okay, Alex. You don't have to coddle me." He starts to pull away again but Alex holds on.

“Michael," he says softly. "I'm holding your hand."

Even in the dark, Alex can see the wonder in Guerin's eyes. "I think that's the first time you've said my first name." 

Alex says it again, testing it out on his tongue. "_Michael_.”

Michael’s newly whole hand trembles in Alex's. "I'm not doing this again."

"You choose now to be afraid?"

"I am a genius," Michael reminds him. "It's time I start using my head. I appreciate the gesture, but we both know how this ends." 

If this was before, it would be the moment Alex said something cutting and untrue. That Michael's conduct was unacceptable, that he was unreliable, that he was loud and crude and Alex was an Airman, goddammit! But Alex knows better now. He's barely an Airman and his honor is something he'd really like back.

"I lied when I said you kept looking away. The truth is that I couldn't look at you at all." Michael's head jerks up sharply. "You're right, you're a genius. I think I spent half of high school listening to Liz complain about how your test scores were always higher than hers. You were supposed to be someone, Michael. Someone amazing."

Again, Alex interrupts him before Michael can say anything. "Let me finish, please?" Maybe it's the pleading in his voice but Michael nods, his mouth settling into a worried frown. "Every time I came back you were still here and every time I looked at you, I remembered that it was because of me. You had a full ride to UNM and you were living in a junkyard and selling copper wire for extra cash. I didn't just join the Air Force to get my father off our backs – I needed to do something to make up for the life I took from you." He says the last words on a sob. He's never confessed his real reason for enlisting with anyone, not even the series of shrinks he had to see after his leg. In so many ways, Guerin – Michael – is his first.

"Can I talk now?" 

Alex manages a nod. 

"I didn't stay because of what happened with your dad. I stayed because Max and I thought Isobel blacked out and killed three people. The hand, everything between us." He gestures with his free hand, the other still clasped tightly between Alex's. "One of my kind _murdered_ people. I was afraid if you saw what I really was – who I really was – you wouldn't want me anyway."

"I always want you," Alex says softly. "Even when I thought you hated me, I wanted you." His voice drops to a whisper. "Even when you wanted someone else."

Michael sighs. "Maria has enough on her plate. I probably shouldn't have dumped my shit on her too." He sighs again. "I'm sorry. I should have been there, or at least said something."

"There are a lot of things we should have said, especially me." Alex waits a beat while he musters his courage. "I'm sorry for leaving and I'm sorry I made you think I was ashamed of you and mostly I'm sorry that you didn't feel safe with me." 

"Your dad's a special kind of asshole," Michael says. "I get it, but ten years is a long time to be angry." His head droops, his forehead coming down to rest against Alex's. "I'm so tired of being angry."

"And now?"

"Ten years was enough time to put my life on hold."

Alex could kiss him. He probably _should_ kiss him but if he kisses him it will get heated and he can't afford to get off-track. He knows the sex is good between them. It's the other stuff, the words and the actions and the _feelings_ that are a constant struggle. He can't have one without the other. 

Reluctantly, Alex lets go of Michael's hand. "Wait here a minute."

Michael's brow knots but he doesn't protest. It's a little thing but that bit of trust, the faith that Alex will walk away but come back, it curls warmly around Alex's heart. There might even be a bounce in his step when he limps back.

"What's this?" The furrow in Michael's forehead deepens as he examines the backpack. 

"Just open it," Alex says before he loses his nerve. He knew coming out here what the consequences would be, but in the moment, watching Michael's lean fingers unzip the backpack and examine its contents, he wishes he'd never decided to be brave. He and Michael seem to be in a good place – a promising place – and one selfless action might ruin everything before it got the chance to start.

"Where did you get this?" Michael asks. He turns the piece of glass around in his hands, the colors shimmering in the starlight. 

"I found it in Jim Valenti's cabin. Until a few days ago, I didn't know what it was."

Michael's eyes are wide as saucers. “I can finish the console, Alex. Do you know what that means?"

Alex nods. Of course he knows what it means. It's the entire reason he didn't turn it over to Michael the second he realized what it was. "It means you can go home." 

It was only a few weeks ago when Alex learned what home really is, from Maria of all people, when she said that home could be a person rather than a place. Alex had taken her advice, bet on Michael and lost. He’d told him that he loved him, that Michael was his family, and he’d chosen a bunch of dying strangers over the living man in front of him.

At the time it had hurt and probably always will, but now it’s a mild sting. Alex has scars on his body and he’ll bear these too, the scars etched into his heart. They’ll remind him, always, not to make the same mistakes.

Michael is still staring at the piece of console. “Do you understand – ” Alex asks.

“ – do you want me to leave?” Michael sounds a little broken. “All that talk about making things right and you want me to go?”

“What? No!” Of all the outcomes Alex imagined, this wasn’t one of them.

“So what am I supposed to think?”

“That you have a choice!" He takes a breath to calm down, then another. "I know you, Michael. All your life you only wanted to find your family. Now you can." 

"I'd have to leave Roswell.” Alex hears the meaning between his words. "I'd have to leave _you_." 

“It was a risk I had to take.”

"Why?"

Alex shakes his head, afraid to speak. If he opens his mouth he might beg Michael to stay and that would defeat the purpose of giving him the console in the first place. He keeps his lips firmly pressed together and stares at the dirt.

When Alex doesn't respond, Michael curls a finger under Alex's chin and forces his head up so their eyes meet. "Why?" he asks again.

"I want you to be happy," Alex finally admits. "I want you to have everything, even if it's not with me."

Michael's gaze flits between the piece of console and Alex's face, and for a long, endless moment, Alex thinks he's going to choose his past. But then he drops the console onto the empty backpack and his mouth curves into the sweetest of smiles, so wide Alex thinks it might split his face. 

Slowly, he pulls Alex to him. Everything feels fragile – Alex's leg, the console, whatever is building between them – but it doesn't stop Michael's hand from resting low on Alex's hip. "I've waited twenty years. What's a few more?"

Alex blinks at him, his brain processing slower than his heart. It beats so hard he worries he could crack a rib. This wasn’t the outcome he’d expected either. The one he’d wanted, yes, but he’d tried not to hope.

“Are you sure? I know I was dramatic before but it really might kill me if you – ” 

Michael kisses him before Alex can finish his sentence. It’s different than any time before, heated but also gentle. Slow, Alex realizes. There’s no rush, no urgency. Michael kisses him like they have all the time in the world, and Alex realizes, with a jolt of surprise, that they do. 

Reluctantly, he pulls away. “We have things to talk about.”

“Soon,” Michael says and kisses him again.

Alex falls into it. History tells him that this will only end badly, but his heart, his stupid broken heart doesn’t feel broken anymore. It knits back together with every press of Michael’s mouth, with the stroke of his hands down Alex’s back as he pulls him closer, so close their hearts beat in time.

He stops being afraid to hope.

* * *

_Three years later_

The late afternoon sun picks out the gold in Michael’s hair, highlights the warm glow of his skin and the hazel of his eyes. Sometimes, he literally takes Alex’s breath away. 

Michael’s hunched over his laptop, idly looking at job recs. He has a physics degree from ENMU, but actual jobs are hard to come by in Roswell. Alex knows Michael would take work in another field, but it seems like a waste. A man that finished a four-year degree in half as long should be able to do whatever he wants. He’d said he wanted Michael to be someone, to have everything, and he thinks he’s found a way to make it happen.

He tries to think of something clever to say but all his attempts die in his throat. His nerves have stolen his wit. He chooses action instead and shoves the packet of papers into Michael’s lap before he chickens out.

“What’s this?” Michael asks. His brows furrows as he flips open the file. “An application to MIT? You make good money, Alex, but we’re still paying back my college loans. We can’t afford grad school tuition too.”

Alex tries to play it casual. “I learned something recently. You can transfer your GI benefits, including money for school.” His words come out strangled. “Like for a husband.”

Michael is rarely without words, but Alex seems to have rendered him speechless. Alex knows it’s a big ask. It would mean leaving Roswell and Michael’s siblings; he already lost the better part of a year before they could resurrect Max. It would mean being tied to each other for the rest of their lives. 

“I know it’s a lot. Take all the time you – ”

“Yes.” Michael bounds from the couch and kisses Alex so hard their teeth rattle. 

“You’re sure?” It was a long time before Michael responded.

“I’m sorry I hesitated, but next time give a guy some warning before you propose.”

“I don’t plan on proposing to anyone else.”

“Good,” Michael says and kisses him again. 

Over his shoulder, a paperweight on the coffee table catches Alex’s attention. It’s a misshapen piece of glass, a rainbow of colors that constantly shift and change.

It catches Michael’s eye too. “This is home,” he says. “Anywhere I go, you go too.”

Alex sucks in a breath. “Even if it’s just Boston?”

“Especially Boston.”

Michael’s forehead drops to rest against Alex’s and their eyes meet. Neither of them looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, apologies for the long delay, but here's the final chapter. Thank you for sticking with it!

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am an old, I watched the _original_ "Roswell" in real time and after three seasons, thought I had put those characters to rest. Then came a rebooted Michael Guerin, and my 90s playlist, and repeated listenings to this song, and eventually new fanfic. I'm rusty, but I think it works. Title courtesy of Linda Perry. Enjoy.


End file.
